Folie à Deux
by Mally O'Jack
Summary: Missing scene for 'A Scandal in Belgravia'. Lestrade and John take Sherlock home after he's drugged by Irene Adler.


There's a Sherlock character analysis site over on tumblr where the author has written some really good posts about Sherlock and John's friendship under the headings "They're Both (Platonically) In-love", "Why I don't ship Johnlock" and "On The Other Hand, They're Not Just Normal Friends Either".

So this story is sort of me expressing the above ideas really. I think I'm still channelling the 'Road Trip' vibe. Anyway, enjoy!

Folie à Deux

by Mally O'Jack

Between them they manage to manhandle Sherlock into the cab.

"Want me to come with you?" Lestrade says, dipping his head to look in.

"Please," John says, a little out of breath as he tries to fasten Sherlock's seatbelt. "Somehow I don't see Mrs. Hudson being much use, do you?"

It's unlike John to be sarcastic, he thinks as he gets in and sits himself opposite. But the man's obviously concerned. Not panicking, like, but worried nonetheless.

"Baker Street, 221b" he says to the cabbie. When he turns back, Sherlock's head is making its way south down the passenger seat, and he gets a good look at the shiner on Sherlock's cheek. "She do that too?" he says, gesturing.

"What?" John says, battling to keep Sherlock upright. "Oh. No, that was me."

"Blimey." He always thought John was superhuman when it came to putting up with Sherlock Holmes. "Well, fair play to you mate for lasting this long; most people would've clocked him one a lot sooner."

"No, he asked me to do it - "

And it is then that Sherlock comes to life suddenly.

"I punched John first," Sherlock slurs. "Right there." He points a wavering finger at John's jaw and nearly takes John's eye out in the process.

"You did," John says in a clipped tone, "and it still hurts."

"And then," Sherlock leans over in Lestrade's direction, "John punched me here." He makes an exaggerated gesture. "But he missed my nose and my teeth. And that means something."

John stiffens in his seat. "So Greg," he says in an obvious attempt to change the subject, "has Mycroft been in touch at all?, because the dead man - "

"Sssh," Lestrade says, "you've interrupted him. I want to hear what Sherlock's got to say." He is fascinated at the way Sherlock is looking at John, and at John's obvious discomfort.

"He avoided my nose and my teeth," Sherlock says again, talking as if his mouth is too big for the words, "and that means -."

"Yes?" He is egging him on. John shoots him a dirty look.

"That John loves me."

Lestrade looks at John, eyebrows raised. John smiles tightly, his hands clasped together.

"Don't you, John?" Sherlock looks sideways at John and promptly falls over again, despite being strapped in.

"Yes, I do. Like a brother. Now sit up properly and keep still."

"I love you too, John."

"That's nice."

"I do. Very much. " It's like watching some bizarre period drama. "But!" and Sherlock holds up his finger. "Not like a brother. Because Mycroft is my brother."

Lestrade knows he is grinning and can't help it. He is thoroughly enjoying the warm and fuzzy display in front of him. "What about me, Sherlock? Do you love me?"

Sherlock looks at him, struggling to focus. "Who are you again?"

The warm and fuzzy feelings evaporate. "Manky git," he mutters. Out the corner of his eye he can see John looking quietly pleased with himself.

Sherlock shuts up again for a bit, his head lolling on his chest.

"What'd she give him, anyway?" Lestrade says.

"I don't know. She said he'd sleep it off, whatever it was."

"And you trust her?"

"I don't know," John says again. "Sherlock seems to."

He does not find this comforting. Neither, judging from his expression, does John.

Sherlock straightens then, startling them both. "My sock!" he declares with all the enthusiasm of Isaac Newton discovering gravity.

"What?"

"My sock! I need to get my sock!" And before they can stop him, Sherlock releases his seatbelt and pitches forward onto the floor of the taxi.

"Sherlock - " John says, whilst Sherlock is scrabbling around at their feet.

"My sock, John, I need my sock. It's here somewhere."

"There aren't any socks there," John says, trying to pull Sherlock up.

"Not plural. Singular." Sherlock's voice is muffled as he tries to crawl under the seat.

"Come on, mate," Lestrade says, helping John to drag him away, "you don't know what's been down there - "

And then Sherlock sits up triumphantly holding a very dusty, mangy-looking sock.

Lestrade and John look at the sock with open mouths. "Well bugger me," Lestrade says when he can speak.

"How did you know your sock was under the seat?" John says, genuinely seeming to take pleasure in the discovery of Sherlock's lost sock. Not,_ "what's the sodding thing doing under there in the first place?"_, which is the first question that springs to Lestrade's mind.

"I mislaid it the last time I was in this cab, but then I recognised the number plate."

"Fantastic." John is looking at Sherlock with something akin to hero-worship, and it is then that Lestrade realises with a shock that John is just as mad as Sherlock is, only he camouflages it by wearing jumpers and doing doctory-stuff.

Trying to maintain some level of sanity, Lestrade turns round to look at the cab driver. "You really should clean your cab more often." The cabbie responds by holding up his middle finger.

John helps Sherlock back into the seat. Sherlock is still holding the sock up and smiling inanely.

"Stop waving it around like that," Lestrade says, "it smells."

"Mycroft gave me this sock."

"He gave you a sock?"

"Yes. He lost it in a bet."

"He bet you a sock?"

"Yes. Are you having trouble understanding English?".

And that's it. In a pique of rage Lestrade grabs the sock and throws it out the window.

* * *

Sherlock is sulking, and John is looking at him reproachfully

"Oh, for the love of - it's a bloody sock!" But in the face of such disapproval, he backs down. "I'll give him one of mine when we get back." He can't believe he is saying this.

"That sock was part of a pair," Sherlock says, looking at him like he's some kind of idiot.

He feels his face go hot and his fist clenches (he certainly won't be avoiding nose or teeth) but before he can do anything, John interrupts.

"Let's just put the whole sock thing behind us." It is a phrase Lestrade did not expect to hear today when he woke up this morning.

John takes Sherlock's wrist. "I need to check your pulse." Sherlock dutifully sits still whilst John does this. He even lets John look in his eyes with a pocket pen torch.

"All right?" Lestrade says when John sits back.

"Yeah. Nothing out the ordinary. Although I'd still feel happier knowing what she gave him."

It is at this point that Sherlock chooses to inform them that, "man has climbed Mount Everest and gone to the bottom of the ocean."

"Yeah? So?" Lestrade says. He is developing a slight headache.

Sherlock carries on. "He's fired rockets at the Moon, split the atom, achieved miracles in every field of human endeavour...except crime."

"What's he going on about?"

There is dawning recognition on John's face. "We had a Bond night a few weeks ago. I think he's doing Goldfinger."

"Do you expect me talk?" Sherlock says dramatically. "No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die."

This is too good to miss. He gets out his phone and holds it up.

"Look, Greg," John says reluctantly -

"It's fine, honest. It's just a bit of insurance. I won't let the rest of the Yard see it, I promise." As well as future leverage, this is also payback for Sherlock being an annoying prat.

He carries on filming. Sherlock's impression of Goldfinger is actually quite good, and soon both John and Lestrade are enjoying this little display of amateur dramatics when suddenly Sherlock's accent changes.

"If you don't stop prying, Mr. Bond... I'll burn you. I'll burn the _heart_ out of you."

He lowers his mobile slowly. "Don't remember that bit in the film."

"No..." John is looking at Sherlock with a funny expression on his face. Before he can ask John about it, the cab pulls up outside the flat.

* * *

They wrestle a floppy Sherlock through the front door, whereupon they are greeted by Mrs. Hudson wearing an apron and wielding a feather duster.

"Oh dear," she exclaims, "what happened?"

"Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Hudson," John says, but then Sherlock raises his head and says very clearly -

"I was beaten by a dominatrix."

There is a thick silence. Mrs. Hudson blinks. John is visibly cringing whilst Lestrade wonders if there's any chance in hell Mrs. Hudson thinks a dominatrix is some kind of vacuum cleaner.

And then Mrs. Hudson says, "her name wasn't Tina was it?"

"Thanks Mrs. H," John says quickly, "we've got it from here," and they start hauling Sherlock along again.

"Shout if you need anything," Mrs. Hudson calls after them.

Lestrade looks over Sherlock's head. "Who's Tina?" he whispers.

"Can we just focus, Greg?" John says, his voice strained, and together they drag Sherlock up the stairs.

* * *

Finally they get Sherlock into his bedroom. Sherlock is humming now. Despite the fact that Lestrade has known Sherlock for over five years, it is John who takes off Sherlock's shoes and who settles him in bed. He stands there feeling curiously like he's intruding.

"All right?" he says as John walks with him to the landing.

"Yeah. I'll leave him alone; hopefully he'll just sleep it off." But John is looking back at the bedroom where Sherlock is still humming to himself, and Lestrade thinks he'd bet a month's pay that the minute he leaves, John is going to return to Sherlock's room and sit with him until he falls asleep.

_I've got four brothers, _he wants to say, _and even we don't look out for each other the way you look out for Sherlock._

Instead, he says "See you later, yeah?"

"Yeah. Cheers, Greg."

He heads downstairs. Mrs. Hudson is still dusting the hallway.

"Bye, dear."

"Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson." He suppresses the urge to ask her how she's on first name terms with a dominatrix called Tina. When he's out on the street he breathes a sigh of relief, happy to leave the madhouse that is 221b Baker Street behind him.

He's in dire need of a drink.

_Finis_


End file.
